Prince of The World
by Glass Box
Summary: <html><head></head>After being told to stay behind on patrol, past scars begin to rise to the surface for Damian.</html>
1. Chapter 1

**Hey :). This is my first Batman fic, I wrote it while venting a bad mood and decided to post it for anyone who may find it at least the slightest bit interesting. If you do like it, please don't be afraid to let me know by reviewing or favoriting. Don't worry, unlike Damian, I don't bite.**

**Disclaimer: Last time I checked all I owned was a dusty nickel, a ticket stub, and-oh look, it's Damian. But he's only a paper cut-out, so I don't own him.**

**Warnings: Damian throws a fit, that's all.**

"You will stay here with Alfred tonight. I'm going out alone," Batman said, pulling his cowl up to cover his face.

Damian had no such covering to hide the fury that sprung up with such wrath at these words, not even Batman had hope of containing it. He'd never understood why people always described anger as "a cloud of red obscuring their vision", but now he did because it was blinding him.

He punched the wall with a resounding CRACK!

"Screw you!" he screamed, before running out of the bat cave. His fury was only bridled until he reached his room, where it shot loose with an inhuman roar.

His room was soon destroyed. He punched holes in the walls like craters on the moon, threw his desk chair, upturned the desk, and tried to flip the bed but when it proved too heavy he flung the mattress across the room and went at the bed frame with scissors.

The fury began to abate as he carved the frame. And as it did, he sank to the floor and started writing words with the scissors. Nuns would cover their eyes at many of them. Damian smirked at the thought. And father would give a firm reprimand. At this reminder of his father...his stupid, idiotic, cretin of a father—the anger blossomed anew in his chest as if someone had poured gasoline on the remnants of a forest fire and struck a match. With a roar, the scissors became embedded within the bed post, right where he wrote _useless._

His window was flung wide open, and his mattress went falling out into the dark night, followed by his chair. He threw his lamp to the floor and stomped on it before throwing that out the window too. A knife was grabbed from his sock drawer and then he was shredding his blankets and pillows. All these things his father had given him. It felt dirty to have them now.

Feathers exploded as the pillows were punctured and torn. They drifted all over like clouds, or down from angels' wings. He barked a humorless laugh at the reminder that he was a devil, as Drake always called him. So unlike an angel. He was a monster.

It wasn't his fault he'd grown up being taught the morality of assassins. And it wasn't his fault that his so-called "family" disagreed with that morality. Who was to say any one of them were right? Nobody. Father didn't have a right to judge him. Mother had always taught him that he was the prince of the world, and here Father was telling him everything Mother said was wrong. Father was trying to tear him down, not help him. If he wasn't a prince...if the ways he knew weren't right...then he was nothing. Nothing.

Damian suddenly felt as if he were slowly, painfully deflating. Warmness gathered at the corners of his eyes as drops of water began to appear on the mauled pillow. His hands were shaking. The knife dropped to the floor.

Keening whines made their way up his throat, escaping through his closed lips. He couldn't stop the harsh sob that came, nor the ones that followed it. He clapped a hand over his mouth. They kept coming, and tears were pouring down his face. It was becoming hard to breath. Why was this happening?

He curled up on the floor and hugged the destroyed pillow close, hiding his face in it. Why? Why? Why? The question repeated in his mind.

Father didn't need him.

The thought rose above the others. It came so clearly. He didn't know why, but it had a calming effect. The tears slowed. He was able to stop sobbing. For several minutes, he lay quietly on the floor, feeling like a beaten toy. A lifeless shell that was used until it was too worn to play with. Then it was forgotten.

That was okay. He'd be okay.

But as pain plucked a cord in his chest, he realized that he wasn't okay. Healing would take time. But he would be able to heal. Eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sup guys. I'm procrastinating homework. Enjoy, don't enjoy, eat corn, don't eat corn...**

For the next two days, Damian worked himself to the bone training. He exhausted himself physically so he wouldn't have to acknowledge how exhausted mentally he was. And maybe...emotionally too. That was new. He didn't often like to use his emotions, so how could they be exhausted? Well, except for anger. He felt anger a lot.

But this emotion that had become a plague recently was unfamiliar. He thought he could recall feeling a shadow of it in the past, when he was still with Mother, but that was nothing compared to this. Or maybe the emotion felt less powerful because it was far behind him. And now that it was back, it felt more intense because he had to deal with it right now, in the present.

Damian shook his head of these thoughts and tried to lose himself in practicing his martial arts forms. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, running through the smooth motions. The overpowering emotion was sucked into is concentration like a black hole.

But it came back when he tripped a moment later. He growled and kicked the punching bag he had been pummeling earlier. He had wanted to direct and release all his sheer anger on the punching bag, then find his center and become balanced through the familiar martial arts forms like the assassins had taught him, but that was not to be.

He needed some water. He padded his way across the training mats to the chilled bottle waiting on the bench. Before he could get there, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He stared for a while, then rubbed his eyes and did a double take. Was that really what he looked like?

Damian always walked with a confident stride that said "I'm above you all," simply because it was true. But now...now he was slumped and defeated. Tiredness positively radiated from him in waves. He was sweaty, smelled pungent, and even his hair was uncombed. He could have sworn he'd combed it this morning. Maybe not.

He backed away from the mirror in shock. He looked like one of those zombie teenagers that ate junk food and stayed up all night at parties. Well not quite that bad. He looked like someone who'd stayed up all night studying for a test, or a teacher who had to _deal_ with that kid who passed the test but fell asleep and drooled on their desk.

He didn't know how long he studied his pathetic image. It was Pennyworth who finally snapped him out of it by expressing displeasure over his appearance (and odor) and requesting he shower.

Damian took a quick warm shower, letting the heat of the water strip his skin of filth. _Now if only you could shower off your soul_, Drake would say.

Damian banged his head against the bathroom wall. "Get out of my head, Drake," he hissed. He stepped from the stream of water, got dressed and stepped into his bedroom, then promptly wondered what to do next. Well it wasn't a school day. It was Saturday. Father, even today, was doing business for Wayne Enterprises. And Damian was glad for it—he didn't want to look at his Father right now. The same Father who hadn't needed him for patrol for the past two nights.

Distantly, the doorbell rang. Damian wandered to the top of the stairs leading to the front foyer and curiously watched Pennyworth answer the door. He leaned over the railing to get a closer look. It wasn't necessary.

"Alfred!"

Damian would recognize that jubilant voice anywhere. Grayson eagerly enveloped the old butler in a hug.

Pennyworth returned the embrace. "Master Richard, how good it is to see you."

"How's everything going, Alf? Bruce treating you well?"

"Quite, if you define "well" by being completely incapable of putting away his dinner dishes or not leaving crumbs on the couch."

"Are you sure that wasn't Dami?"

Damian bristled at the accusation. He would never be so uncivilized!

"I don't believe Master Damian considers Doritos to be fit cuisine," Pennyworth replied.

Right he was. Those things were deplorable, and could hardly be called edible.

"Speaking of which, where is the little devil?"

Devil. It would appear Drake had infected Grayson. Damian didn't expect the sentence to cause him to feel as if something in his chest had been popped. Certainly it wasn't his heart. Perhaps...a balloon. And such a ridiculous thing did not belong in his chest cavity, so really, he should be thanking Grayson for popping it. Right now he didn't feel like it though, so he slunk quietly back to his room.

The dark mood that had been oppressing him pressed darker, thicker, and heavier as he lay beneath the covers of his bed. He didn't know what it was. He only hoped it wouldn't suffocate him.

**Things you should know:**

**I myself am not depressed**

**Damian is 10-11 yrs old here**

**Yes, kids that young can be depressed**

**There will be more dialogue next time**

**Amazing people leave reviews **

**You are all amazing **


	3. Chapter 3

**Fall Break has come, and I think I did pretty well on my math test. This deserves a celebratory chapter.**

**I forgot my disclaimer. Everyone congratulate me while I proceed to disclaim everything. I do not own Batman.**

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It was likely no one would discover the carnage of Damian's room until Pennyworth went out to trim the hedges, and found the very out of place mattress flattening the tulip beds. Hardly anyone went into Damian's room; no one had reason to, especially since Damian was always self-reliant and punctual.

So if his bed was in the garden...whose bed was he sleeping on? He took a quick look around— his eyes were assaulted with bright colors and general ridiculousness. Oh no. Damian sat bolt upright. Why would he have come here of all places? Only one member of the Wayne household could stand such horrendous décor.

He had tiptoed halfway to the door when it suddenly opened, and a merrily whistling figure entered the room.

Grayson's entire countenance seemed to glow—if that were possible—when he spotted Damian. "Dami!" he exclaimed. "There you are kiddo! Whatcha up to?"

Damian gathered the ends of his fraying composure together in an effort to safe face. "Grayson," he greeted formally. "When did you arrive?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Ooh! Alfred made fresh cookies, do you want one?" the man reached into his pocket and produced a broken cookie that was oozing melted chocolate. Grayson blanched. "Eh. Shoulda thought that through."

"Among many other life decisions," Damian deadpanned. He had been slowly making his way around Grayson throughout the conversation, and was now near the door. He reached for it. "Now if you will excuse me, I have important business to attend to."

"I'll come with you!"

Damian cringed. "No. Why don't you...catch up with Father?"

Grayson sidled up to Damian's side as he tried to escape down the hallway. "I thought Alfred said he was at work today."

Yes, that was right, wasn't it? Without warning, the earlier comment that had cast a dark shadow over Damian came back to the boy. Devil. Grayson thought he was a devil. That wasn't true, because any words that came out of Drake's mouth was the equivalent to drool. Grayson should know that, so why would he agree with Drake?

"-alright?"

Damian just caught the end of the sentence. "What was that? My natural reflex is to tune your obnoxious voice out."

Grayson had the nerve to chuckle. "I said are you alright? You look kind of tired. Has Bruce been keeping you up late?"

_He would be if he needed me._

A hand in front of him stopped Damian in place. Before he could snap at Grayson, he realized he was on the receiving end of a perplexed look. Oops. Did he say that out loud?

"Dami...have you two been fighting?" Grayson asked.

"Of course not," Damian spat. He slapped Grayson's hand away. "Father is a very busy man and I'm sure he only wishes to rid himself of distractions."

Damian progressed down the hall at a quickened pace. Grayson followed. "Damian, what are you talking about? What's wrong, buddy? Talk to...me."

They had come to Damian's room, which the boy had retreated to without conscious thought. Grayson's voice petered off in shock. But right now, Damian no longer cared what the man thought of the destruction that lay before them. Damian stalked to his desk and sat heavily on the chair—which had been spared from his wrath somehow.

Grayson whistled, but this time it was not out of joy. "Oh boy."

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**I feel the need to profusely apologize for the mistakes I have made and will make. Anyone who wants to point them out to me, please do so with kindness. No flames. Or spam. I think I got spammed really hard by an anon, but I'm too confused to know for sure. :/**

**You are all wonderful people, thanks for reading :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Howdy yal. Thanks to all who reviewed, favorited, or followed. You're all lovely people :). And those who like this story but haven't done any of those three things, well, you're lovely too :).**

**By the way guys, I saw the Maze Runner movie today and it. was. awesome! Intense, scary, and violent, with some vulgar language, but for those who can stomach those things, it was really cool. I really don't know why I told you that, but if anyone's interested in seeing it, that's just my opinion on it. **

**Hope you're enjoying the story. Let me know if you think there are any corrections I should make, or tell me what things you would like to see happen. Review, review, review! **

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"So...you _are_ fighting with Bruce."

Damian gave a noncommittal grunt, refusing to make eye contact.

"What happened this time?"

Grayson said that in such a way, as if he had _so_ many better things to do than be here, it made Damian angry all over again. "Well it wasn't _my_ fault," he snapped.

Holding up his hands, Grayson took a cautious few steps closer to Damian. "I'm not pinning blame. But..." he glanced around. Damian became overly aware of the many holes in the walls, and even a few on the ceiling. He didn't remember making those. "I'm a little confused as to why you would destroy your own things and not Bruce's if you're mad at him."

To that, Damian had no answer. He tried to produce one, but he took too long because Grayson started talking again.

"Of course, I _assume_ this was you're doing because I really can't imagine Bruce destroying his own son's room...and Alfred would have told me if a burglar had payed a visit."

"Tt. Of course none of that happened."

Grayson took a seat on the carved bed frame. For some reason, Damian wasn't able to contain a flinch when the man's eyes seemed to draw in on the word _useless_ just beside his leg. "You know, it helps to talk."

"I believe we are talking. And what a rousing conversation it has been."

Grayson snapped his fingers. "And it would be more rousing with cookies!" he exclaimed.

"...No."

A frown—no, it was a pout—appeared on Grayson's face. "But I haven't had them since I visited a few weeks ago."

"Tt. You had them a few minutes ago, when you arrived."

"That doesn't count."

"It does too, moron."

"But I missed lunch, I'm _hungry_."

"Then eat a proper meal, don't fill yourself with unnecessary fats and simple carbohydrates!"

Now Grayson was smiling. Only an idiot would smile after being insulted several times over. "I have never met another ten year old who cared so much about his health."

"Possibly because I am not like other ten year olds you have met in any way conceivable."

"Yeah...that's true."

Damian didn't like the thoughtful look on Grayson's face. Before he could object to any ludicrous ideas that were undoubtedly filling Grayson's head, the man suddenly started shifting around. "Sit still, would you?" Damian said irritably. "You look as if you have ants crawling through your clothes."

"I would," Grayson mumbled. "If this were more comfortable. Where _is_ your mattress?"

Damian pointed to the window.

Grayson's eyes widened. "Goodness, where have you been sleeping?" After some consideration, and a beat of Damian's silence, Grayson asked, "Have you been sleeping?" He peered closely at Damian's face. "Cause it doesn't look like it. You haven't been, have you?"

Damian reluctantly nodded in affirmation. Grayson sighed. "I have been finding it necessary to replace sleep with training. You know very well that Father values sleep very little. Training should be the number one priority."

Grayson leaped to an assumption. "You've been training instead of sleeping to impress Bruce?"

'No, of course not', Damian wanted to say. But could that be true? Was he really trying to get on Father's good graces? That thought caused Damian to become very self conscious about the state of his room. Would Father dock him even more nights of patrol if he saw this?

Grayson must have read into the subtle movements of agitation Damian was allowing to surface. "You know, I used to do the same thing when I was Robin. Especially when I thought Bruce was mad at me, which was pretty much all the time, until I learned to speak the bat language."

Damian looked up. "Bat language?"

Leaning forward conspiratorially, Grayson was about to speak, but the bedroom door opened. In walked Pennyworth, seeming unfazed by the state of Damian's room. "Master Richard, I do hate to impose, but there seems to be a mattress taking up residence within the tulip beds. Would you be so gracious as to assist me in returning it to its proper place?"

"Oh. Sure Alfred. Dami, want to come help?"

Damian was about to protest, but Grayson added, "It is your bed, after all."

Not that he wanted it now that it had been lying in soil and exposed to the elements for the past two days; bugs had probably nested in it by now. But somehow, Damian found himself lifting one end of the mattress alongside Pennyworth and Grayson. Grayson might have deduced the reason of his cooperation to something he called a "guilt trip", but Damian believed it was because it _was _his bed, and he couldn't trust Grayson to be around his things unsupervised; even if he would be with Pennyworth.

"You good on your end, Damian?" Grayson called.

"Yes, just move!"

The three of them shuffled the mattress through the manor's front doors and up the long staircase, down the hall, until they finally reached Damian's room, where they deposited the mattress on the bed frame. Damian wrinkled his nose. "It's filthy!"

"And I do wonder how that came to be," Pennyworth said, dusting off his hands and raising an eyebrow.

To his credit, Damian wasn't cowed _that_ much under the butler's accusing gaze. Like every Wayne (real or not real), he was well aware that Pennyworth was a force to be reckoned with. A force whose bad side he wanted to be on even less than his Father's.

"Well there's nothing to be done for it now," Damian declared. "I propose we make the best of this situation."

Now it was Grayson's eyebrow that went up. "And we would do that by...?"

Damian thought. "Father has plenty of money to fix this damage."

A dratted smile just about _creeped_ onto Grayson's face, like an overly friendly cat ready to pounce at any given moment. "_Or_, we could have...brotherly bonding time by fixing this room ourselves! And before you say no, that's not an answer because if you agree, I won't tell Bruce about this mess!"

Damian's jaw almost dropped. "A-are you _blackmailing_ me?!"

"You know it!"

With a huff, Damian said, "Fine! But only if you teach me about this 'bat language'."

Grayson saluted, smiling widely. He must have a really big mouth to be able to give a smile that big. "Can do, Dami!"

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**Well, there you have it. It was fun for me to write, so I hope it's fun to read too. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hiya. It's an extra long weekend, and I don't know quite what to do with myself. So I wrote up this little diddy. Hope everyone likes it. I'll be adding Bruce to the mix again to stir things up in another few chapters or so. I love writing Dick and Dami, but I don't want this story's main focus to be on them. As always, feel free to make suggestions by reviewing or PMing. ** Whichever** you prefer. When I'm completely done with this story, I might go back and revise it, since as I'm rereading I'm noticing my mistakes and that there's a bit of a lack of detail. **

**Have a happy day, happy month, happy year, happy life...**

**DdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDdDd**

Grayson led him down a flight of stairs to a place in the manor he'd never been. As they descended them, the carpeted stairs and wood paneling on the walls both gave way to cement, and their footsteps echoed loudly. Damian guessed some large cavern waited for them at the bottom, and he was right. They emerged from the stairwell to see a vast sea of cars that shone like multicolored beetles, all parked on different levels within the enormous underground garage.

"How come I've never seen this place before?" Damian questioned.

Grayson glanced at him over his shoulder as he led Damian down a short metal staircase. "Bruce never showed you this?"

The absence of an answer was all the answer Grayson needed, as he tried to placate Damian by saying, "It's a big house. Even I hadn't discovered all the rooms in the mansion after a year of living with Bruce. I'm sure you'll see everything eventually."

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and now stood in the midst of the cars. "Now," Grayson declared. "Which one do you want to take?"

"For keeps?"

Damian thought Grayson might be having a seizure when he buckled over suddenly. But then the man started laughing. "N-no," he gasped. "Just for the day. And I'm driving by the way."

Coloring in a mixture of anger and embarrassment, Damian marched away at a brisk pace. As he did so, he cast his eyes about him in an effort to complete his appointed quest to find a suitable vehicle.

He would have liked to inspect each car individually, but there were simply too many and not enough time for that. Damian wondered if this is how his mother felt when she was training the assassins. There were many of them, and they all looked relatively the same. There was no way she could have ever trained them all perfectly. That's why she put all her efforts into Damian to make sure he was perfect. But she couldn't even succeed in that. The worst part was, Damian didn't think it was her fault that he didn't achieve perfection.

"Hey Damian!"

He turned at the shout to see Grayson waving his arms around. "What do you think of this one?"

The car Grayson was pointing to was in one word: abominable. It was a metallic sky blue truck with something that he could only guess was a smiley face on its antenna from this distance. Why did Father even own that disgusting thing?

Instead of shouting back like a buffoon, Damian raised his hand and gave a sharp thumbs-down sign.

Grayson scratched his head. "Really? Alright, suit yourself."

Damian moved on. He walked a good distance, and was almost to the end of the vast room when he saw it. It was the very embodiment of...what the average citizen of Gotham might call "awesome."

"Grayson! I found it," he called, not caring that he was raising his voice inside the manor.

Damian trailed his fingers along the side of the sleek, black car. It kind of reminded him of the Batmobile, in a way, but with less hidden compartments, devices, and weapons. That was a shame. But it was still cool. He tried the handle, and finding that it opened right up, he crawled inside. It smelled new, and looked like it had never been used.

When Grayson jogged up, he whistled. "That's a good one. Among cars, I'd say this is the king."

Damian sniffed. "Of course it is. I would accept nothing less."

"But are you _sure_ you want this one, because _those_ are some pretty sweet slugbugs over there." Damian glanced to where Grayson was pointing and choked. One "slugbug" was pastel pink and decorated like a ladybug, and the one next to it looked like an orange cat. It even had whiskers. Actually, the cat one wasn't that bad...but he wasn't about to admit it.

When he got into the driver's side of the car, Grayson was still chuckling. He opened up a tray between the front seats, from which he produced a set of keys and started the engine. "Let's roll."

Soon, they were on their way down a barren road to the center of Gotham city, with Grayson tapping his feet to some old rock song. "Where is it exactly you are taking me?" Damian asked.

"First stop will be the furniture store. We'll pick up a bed, a few chairs maybe—oh, we forgot to take that out of the garden. The mattress was kinda a distraction. A new lamp...anything else you need."

"And then?"

"Well, I haven't decided yet but I thought it would be fun to repaint your room too, and pick up some toys or anything you want to entertain yourself with."

Damian crossed his arms. "Tt. I have never had toys, nor do I foresee myself possessing such frivolous, pointless things in the future."

Grayson's tapping slowed to a stop. He didn't reply, so Damian assumed that matter was null and void.

Not much later, Damian had had enough and switched the radio station. He leaned into his seat and closed his eyes.

"I didn't know you liked classical music," Grayson commented.

Damian gave a long suffering sigh. "Music is simply sounds put together to sound pleasing. Of course, not everyone achieves that. I do not indulge in or enjoy music, as it serves me no purpose; classical is the most tolerable."

"Oh."

They fell into silence again, but once more, it didn't last long.

"Hey Dami."

Damian growled. "What?"

"What's your favorite color?"

This time, Damian's voice was more incredulous than annoyed. "What?"

"I said what's your favorite-"

"I know what you said Grayson," Damian held his hand out. "What I don't understand is why you would have any need at all to know that information? And that's assuming I have a 'favorite color' at all. Why must I have a favorite? They are all just colors, are they not?"

"Ohh, no." A smile grew on the man's face. "Don't try to sidetrack the question with big words and logic. I _know_ you have a favorite color."

A beat of silence before Damian mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Green," Damian snapped.

And then, darn it, Grayson looked far more triumphant than he ought to. He kept that expression for long enough that Damian was about reach a point where he was going to throw caution to the wind and strangle the man—driver or not. Luckily, they reached the furniture store just in time.

The moment Damian spotted the man waiting just inside the store, wearing a company apron and a smile on par with Grayson's, he lunged forward and latched onto the door handle, throwing his full weight back. The man's smile disappeared in confusion as the door refused to budge. Damian smirked. He waited a second before opening the door and striding into the building proudly.

Grayson looked down at him bemusedly, ignoring the door greeter that was still rather flustered. "What was that about?"

"Tt. I hate door greeters," Damian replied darkly. "They all seem to think I can't open a simple gosh dang door myself. They conspire against me."

Grayson's face brightened with mirth. "You're so strange Little D, that's why I love you."

Somehow, Grayson had just insulted and complimented Damian in the same sentence. He didn't know how to react to that, so he settled on scowling. Grayson only laughed that ridiculous laugh of his.

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**I actually share Damian's opinion on door greeters. I always feel like I'm obligated to smile and thank them, but I'd rather just keep my head down and go about my business. What do you think about door greeters? Let me know in the comments. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys, I'm back. I've had this written for a while now, and planned on making it longer, but never got around to it. I could tell you that life decided to not only hand me lemons, but hit me in the face with a ten-ton truck, but that's not entirely true; it's my sister life went after. She has recently been having a really hard time, and it all started with a panic attack. Right now we believe she has health anxiety disorder. She thinks that she's sick, and is making my parents drag her to all sorts of doctors to see what's wrong, but it might be the belief that she's sick that is causing her illness. So she's so worried about being sick that she's making herself sick. I think it's called hypochondriasis. She's been camped out on the couch since last Sunday and only gets up to go to the bathroom. If you believe in God, reader, please pray for her. Her name is Alexis. **

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Grayson didn't force him to buy anything. But he was darned awful at "suggesting".

He used his "gentle" powers of persuasion to try to get Damian to go to the kids' section multiple times, mostly by pointing and loudly exclaiming, "Wow, Dami! Look at those Batman bedsheets! Isn't that cool?!"

In answer, Damian would "Tt." and say, "They suit your childish nature, Grayson. You should get them."

Grayson would pout. "That's not what I meant."

And Damian wouldn't care.

Instead, Damian ended up buying furniture that was nearly identical to the things he had before he destroyed them. The time they spent shopping was a grand total of an hour: forty minutes browsing, and twenty trying to get Grayson to stop lounging on all the chairs and jumping on the beds; the second one almost got them kicked out, but Damian managed to knock Grayson off the bed and out of sight with a pillow before the lurking employee could see him.

Unfazed, Grayson hopped right back on the bed as soon as the suspicious employee stopped glancing their way.

"Grayson," Damian hissed. "I insist you stop treating this _public_ store like your own personal playground."

Grayson clutched at his chest and conjured up an affronted expression. "Why Damian, don't you know this is the proper way to use a bed? All I'm doing is testing out their quality for you."

"Stop spouting nonsense and get down from there. I might not have been raised like the average child, but I know perfectly well that that is not the proper use of a bed. Do not assume you can deceive me so easily."

Realizing too late that he had paced closer to the bed during his rant for emphasis, Grayson managed to catch Damian by the arm and dragged him onto the bed with him. "C'mon little D, it's fun! Bounce!"

Grayson latched onto his hands and started bouncing up and down. Even as Damian protested, he was reminded of the moon bounce Steph once took him to and couldn't help the small bud of warmth that began to blossom in his chest.

"There you go!" Grayson laughed. "You're having fun now; a see a smile!"

Damian smoothed his features to calm indifference. "I assure you that I am not having fun. Now kindly release me."

But Grayson shook his head, bouncing with renewed vigor. "Not until you bounce on your own."

"Fine!" Damian spat, and Grayson allowed him to tear his hands away. His frustration caused him to do a mixture of bouncing and stomping as he partook grudgingly in Grayson's horseplay. The bed springs creaked beneath them.

Suddenly, Grayson tackled him off the bed and curled around Damian as he landed in a roll on the ground.

"Gray-"

A hand was slapped over Damian's mouth, cutting off his angry exclamation. "Shh," Grayson hissed, then pointed. Damian peeked around the bed to see the same lurking employee from earlier squinting his eyes in their direction. The employee stayed stock still for several seconds before slowly slinking away.

Grayson broke out in giggles. "Did you see his face? What a creeper."

A smile crept onto Damians' face unbidden. "I suppose it was...fairly amusing. Now _please_ can we get off this dirty floor?"

Grayson gasped, even as he rose to his feet with Damian. "Was that an admission to fun, _and_ a please I heard?"

"At least we know you're not deaf," Damian retorted. Was that really so hard to believe?

**0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000**

**I have not proofread this and I'm not entirely ashamed of that :). Just a little bit. A big thanks to all of my readers. It's nice to know that some people, however few they may be, like my writing. **

**One more thing: I saw another movie and I'm going to tell you how amazing it was! I saw Big Hero 6 and it. was. adorable! But also heartbreaking. But uber cute! You should see it guys, Disney did a SO much better job on this than Frozen! (but perhaps you shouldn't take the word of someone who didn't like Frozen. Yeah that's right. I said it. Feel free to throw rocks and flowerpots.) **


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